Baubles and Dreams
by Anna Tramell
Summary: An eight-year old Harry Potter has a rare bonding experience with his Aunt Petunia – that he's quite determined not to mess up. It would, however, be the last.


Baubles and Dreams

Harry came down the stairs of the Dursley home, fresh from the shower with rosy cheeks. For Harry, showers had always been a luxury in the Dursley home. He was always allowed one-a-day, with as long as it took to scrub the filth from his person. That was a thirty or so minute window that was entirely for him to treasure with the assortment of shampoos and washes Aunt Petunia was gifted throughout the year from her husband's clients, from friends, and otherwise gifting occasions. Recently, Harry had grown quite attached to a tropical soap blend he could smell hours later off his skin. It was bright and sunny and put him in a good mood, despite the clothing he had to slip back into after his fantasy.

Dudley's old pajama shirt swallowed his tiny frame, despite the fact he was eight (Eight!) years old, and that was fine for the width, but he'd been hoping his height would catch up, so it wouldn't have to look so ratty! Before ducking into his cupboard, Harry leaned against the railing and watched the telly for a bit, which his aunt almost always had running. On the screen, models were parading up and down a lit runway, their hips sashaying up and down, posing for flash of lights. Harry couldn't help the giggle that escaped him. His Aunt Petunia whipped around, neck snapping in his direction.

"Sorry, but isn't it the most ridiculous dress you've ever seen?" Harry asked before he could catch himself. Aunt Petunia didn't usually like it when Harry talked. But quite true, the current model sported what was supposed to be an "impressionist floral meets tribal." Petunia tightly-drawn face relaxed into an unexpected smile. An actual smile. "Aren't you one to talk, with the little amount of hair you've got." She waved her hand above her own head, indicating the small towel he'd wrapped there. Sure, it might look funny, but Harry didn't want to anger the Dursleys with wet spots on their carpet.

"Don't like the mess in my eyes." He nodded at the television. "Would you wear that?" "That," being an homage to peacocks, layers of feathers.

"Good heavens, no!"

"Okay, well, I'd probably wear the next one. I'm sure it will be good!"

"Aren't you a silly creature today!" she laughed. Genuinely laughed. It was a rare thing, but Harry was sometimes able to make her happy, to make her like him a little more.

Harry relaxed a little, lingering on the stairway a bit more. The next model was a long-faced woman with tendrils of curls. The dress was less impressive. Harry took another chance and asked, "Why don't you wear your hair like that one?

"Me?" she sputtered. "Like one of those-"

"Yes, seriously! Can I...?" he made wild gestures with his hands.

She eyed him up and down, then slowly reached into the purse at her feet and pulled out a hairbrush she held over her shoulder. "Well, amuse yourself then." He bounded down the steps and received the brush with a sort of reverence. Harry had never actually touched her before, but the weirdness of this didn't put him off from the , he tugged the pins loose that binded the strands to her head. He wondered if his aunt had ever considered modeling, or maybe his mother? Did they use to walk down the steps with their Sunday best and hair tamed down and giggle and strut, did they laugh and play together?

"Are you considering being a hair-stylist?" she asked.

Harry suppressed a snort. "Nah." A future? What was he planning on?He mused on that concept as he dropped a collection of pins by his feet. What kind of future would he have anyways?

Once down, her brown hair curled well. It suddenly didn't look so old and scary. Well, if she didn't scowl all the time, she wouldn't look half bad. Harry glanced at the screen again. The sudden thought of Vernon coming home early set him to work faster.

They laughed at the models and their outfits while Harry twirled his aunt's hair into a simple bun, teased wavy lines to frame her face and looking from screen and project back, he decided she could use bangs, too, definitely.

The new line of models had a guy on their arms, leading them delicately down the lit path. Harry quite liked the tuxedos he saw, and if anything, thought he'd like to be one of them, and wear one of those. Maybe he wasn't as pretty as the guys on _there_, but he didn't look too bad. Most old ladies found him cute.

But, if he ever wanted to wear a tuxedo, he supposed he'd have to marry. Harry cracked up at the idea, while his aunt thought he was laughing at the newest dress design (also much too flashy). She looked better, way better smiling. She could be beautiful, even. Sure, she had a horse-face, but if she'd only wear her hair down and prettier clothes...

Dudley clomped down the stairs while Harry did the finishing touches. He kicked the bobby pins under the couch, lest Dudley trip on them, lest he be blamed. Dudley looked between them, then at his mother's daring look, he plopped on the couch beside her – as if such a seat was an honor of certain status.

Harry waited for his cousin to start complaining about the programming – instead, Dudley gawked at the girls and talked about how pretty they were. The conversation moved to picking a future wife for Dudley, as if any of the women would ever give him a second look.

"What about you... Harry?" his aunt asked, elevated mood, even enough to address him by his name and turn back and touch his arm. The gesture and question was startling and disturbing, that he stepped back. How could he answer that he didn't find one of them in the least appealing. He was relieved of an answer when the front door swung open and Harry could safely fall back, hastily yanking the towel off.

"Is dinner on?" Uncle Vernon greeted his nephew with.

Harry scrambled to the kitchen, noticing Petunia raking her hands through her hair, as if absolving all evidence, eventually crafting it back into her usual.

She always wore her hair up.


End file.
